


Through Suffering & Reprieve

by Thundercatlola



Series: The Lesser of Two Beasts [2]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: And no not like that, Anna shows a little humanity, Blood and Injury, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Language Barrier, Rough Caretaking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thundercatlola/pseuds/Thundercatlola
Summary: A wounded, amnesic Charlotte collapses within the Fog during a frantic search for Victor; and ends up at the mercy of an old foe.
Relationships: Anna | The Huntress/Victor & Charlotte Deshayes | The Twins
Series: The Lesser of Two Beasts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067318
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Treading on Dark Grounds

Agony overwhelms Charlotte the moment she stirs. 

It feels like her back has been whipped with tongues of fire; gashes blazing with burrowed embers. She thinks she can smell her own flesh sizzling off her back. Her lungs pulse with a dull weight and the rank tang of old blood sits on her tongue. 

The girl’s head feels as if someone had stuffed it full of cotton. Her mind seems to be nothing but white noise. She can’t remember what happened or why she’s here... Yet what hits harder than the pain and amnesia is the realization that the cavity in her chest is empty; leaking a dribble of fluids from the bottom of the split in her flesh. 

_Where is Victor?_

“Vict- Aghhh!..” Charlotte tries to call for her brother, but stumbles into a bout of raw coughing. The fresh taste of metal comes spraying over her tongue. She gasps hoarsely, shifting onto her hands and knees through the burning grip which tightens around her flanks. Her knapsack slumps from her shoulders with a soft _thunk_ , but she pays no mind.

The forest air is moist and heavy. The Deshayes girl wheezes for breath as she crawls through the underbrush, groping for her sickle. Her lungs ache with each sharp inhale. Still, she paws blindly through bristly grass and gnarled roots, searching for any trace of worn metal.

She doesn’t have much time. She needs to recover her blade so she can go look for her brother.

But the Fog hisses in denial, gradually thickening to a veil of black before Charlotte’s eyes. It gives rise to sinister shadows, whose freezing fingers trail over the older twin’s beaten figure in the bitterest of caresses. She’s racked with a chill that consumes her whole body.

Charlotte’s heart starts to hammer madly in her chest. _"...Maîtresse? Where is Victor?"_

 **Your dearest brother is hiding, Charlotte.** The Entity's mocking whisper coils around the girl’s throat like a serpent formed from ice. It’s scales of frost slice deep, constricting welted skin in a swell of frigid agony. **Go and run to him, little pig.**

The girl staggers to her feet with a cry of rage when she hears that taunting purr. She rips away from the malevolent presence and flees into the Fog, screaming for her younger twin.

_“Victor! Victor, where are you?! Come out, Little Brother, please! Victor!”_

Dark rows of elm and oak flash by, slimy trunks shrouded in dark mist. The pines’ bristling fingers snare on Charlotte’s unraveling dress, tugging stubbornly against tattered sackcloth and fabric. The burning pressure on her chest rises the longer she runs; soon it feels like her lungs are getting enclasped in hot iron bands. Thorns, pebbles and other forest debris tear the soles of her feet open. 

But the worst hurt is the cold, hollow absence in a space usually filled by Victor’s squirming body. The younger twin’s leave is resurfacing nasty memories in his sister.

_Flying through a wall of free embers and crackling flame, diving for the sunlight even as the black smoke steals away Victor’s life._

_Sleuthing through the slop in the pig pens, shoving hogs’ snouts away as they snuffle at the oozing body of her twin, tucked beneath her filthy clothing._

_Lying curled in a heap of dirty snow, cradling her brother’s corpse close as she shivers with cold and wishes for death to take her._

Angry tears flow hot and fast, dripping down cheeks flecked with dry blood. Charlotte grunts and furiously scrubs at her eyes. The lashes along her back pulse with every pulling movement of her shoulders and arms. Her lungs are filling up with warm fluid; it sputters past her lips in wheezing coughs. 

Charlotte’s heart is thrashing so fiercely she fears it may burst from her malformed chest. Everything hurts, _everywhere_ hurts. Each step along the treacherous forest trail leaves a smeared crimson footprint in its wake. 

She’s bleeding out from the holes in her feet; racing from the jaws of a predator she can’t even see. 

“Victor! _Victor!_ ”

Charlotte thinks she can see the shadows coiling and lengthening from the corner of her eyes. She's too panicked to notice any glint of rusty metal lying hidden along the dead leaves until it’s too late, when the crude wire ensnares her ankle and sends her tumbling. Her hat comes flying off. A ruby arc of dark droplets are left streaking the forest floor as the girl slams right into a tree trunk; head making firm contact with the knobbly limbs crowning it’s base.

*

Anna’s voice turns low and detached as she calmly wrenches her axe from the gouged neck of her latest victim. The wild boar lies in a broken heap, tongue lolling from its hairy mouth. 

Genuine game may be much more dangerous to hunt within the Entity’s Realm than the frequent human prey, but Anna finds that stalking down the forest’s rabid animals keeps her skills sharpened and hatchets always at the ready. The Huntress ties the beast by it’s hooves and slings the carcass over one shoulder, wiping her blade on her sarafan. The crooning notes of her lullaby drift among the gloom as she treks through the foliage, stomping down leaves and branches in her rounds back to the snares.

When she nears the area of her springe, the Fog parts enough for Anna to spy through the darkness a large shape lying slumped over on it’s side, caught in one of the traps. A throaty purr of satisfaction claws its way into the tune of her song when she glimpses her prize.

But as she paces forward, the Huntress then notices that the prey is rather out of proportion. It’s too big to be a wolf, but has hardly the bulk of any bear she’s seen before. It isn’t making any noise or attempting to free itself. It doesn’t even seem to be conscious.

Anna tilts her head, scrutinizing. She slings aside the body of the boar and creeps closer. Her curiosity gives way to bewilderment when she recognizes the squashed, puggish face and gaping chest of that one intruder girl. Only now, the thief lies bloodied, motionless, and without her weapon nor the grotesque little imp at her side.

_Why has she come crawling back?_

The Huntress takes a hatchet from her belt and sneers as she lifts Charlotte's chin with the dull end, staring up and down in disdain for signs of life. She prods the other Killer roughly in the shoulder and grabs at her face before nudging her over onto her back. This action elicits a rattling whine of pain from the fallen female, which makes Anna wrinkle her nose. 

It’s like looking at a sick hound whimpering to be put out of its misery. And yet…

Anna rolls Charlotte onto her stomach, and growls when the scents of burning skin and stale blood rise to meet her nose.

Tiny rivers of red run from long, deep lash marks that tear over the deform's back in flayed lines. Bits of shredded flesh cling to the swelling edges of the slits, which are black with dirt. The cuts themselves sizzle in an amberish hue; glowing faintly, as if someone had successfully struck a sparking match against the skin.

Anna’s lips pull into a frown, despite herself. Looked like the ugly little cub had gotten her first taste of the Entity’s wrath, and not too long ago either.

The Huntress remains crouched next to Charlotte's crumpled form, wondering what she should do. This girl, injured or not, is still an intruder- and she's trespassed within the Red Forest before. Anna knows she has every right to dig her axe into the other Killer’s skull, but… Seeing the girl lie there, trapped and rasping in agony, awakens faint memories in Anna of harsh winters and frostbitten corpses of little girls she’d failed to help.

Setting her jaw then in a low snarl of determination, the Huntress snaps the snare’s rusted wire from the deform's ankle and hauls her limp, beaten body up unceremoniously over one shoulder. With her axe gripped firmly in her other hand, Anna moves back down the trail towards home, leaving nothing but the lilting hum of her lullaby in the air as the shadows engulf her.


	2. Aid the Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lack of motivation really made me struggle with finishing this one, but it's finally here! Hope you guys enjoy!

A moist, musty smell of wet dirt and dried herbs wafts up to greet the Huntress’s nose as she throws open the rotting trap door to the root cellar. She shoulders Charlotte’s limp form, humming in contemplation.

The dank gloom of the shelter below seems eager to writhe up and swallow her whole.

Once upon a time, the space was used for winter preservation. Rations would remain protected in here; as well as Anna and her mother, should the weather ever take a turn for the worse. The Huntress would later abandon the cellar in favor of her cabin’s childkeep, reducing this former sanctuary to a bleak expanse of bones and spectral memories.

That might be why it makes her so uneasy now.

Anna shifts the few medical components around in her arms; nearly dropping her bowl of water as she tries to rearrange. She finally huffs and slides down into the shelter, securing the slab of damp redwood behind her.

There’s not much light, if any, within the tomb of soil. Molding boards frame the walls and floor loosely, their nails coated in rust. Stumpy candles sit cold in shallow alcoves dug out of the loam walls. Bundles of withering herbs suspend from the unsteady ceiling.

The broken girl hanging over her back does not even twitch when she’s set unceremoniously on a rumpled pelt mat in the far corner. Anna’s lullaby turns low and trilling she takes up a knotted coil of rope and secures it around Charlotte’s neck; tying her down firmly.

The Huntress lights a few candles and sets to work.

*

Anna isn’t exactly sure what causes her charge to stir first: the stench of ammonia, or the sting of icy water against fresh wounds. 

Either way, it makes Charlotte come to with arms and legs flailing. 

Her hands fly to her throat first, and rub into the coarse cord encircling it. The girl's attention flashes from the barren hunk of scar tissue roiling down along her breast to the hatchets hanging from Anna's belt and starts to scream. 

_“Victor!.. Where is Victor?! What did you do to my brother?!”_

Her panicked words come spilling out in a tongue Anna doesn’t recognize. She doesn’t have time to think about this though, because Charlotte begins to roar and thrash in her binding like a trapped animal. One of her bucking feet collides firmly with Anna’s gut, drawing out a brief grunt of surprise from the Russian woman as she grapples her charge’s arms to the ground. 

The deform snarls, yellow teeth flashing. Anna stares at the girl in liaise and slowly tightens her grip on the rope. 

_“Stay still. I am trying to help you.”_ The Russian rumbles.

Charlotte doesn’t understand. She bares her canines like a poked bear and continues to struggle; misshapen feet pushing against Anna’s abdomen. The Huntress hauls her weight over the younger Killer, using her mass to keep the shorter female pinned. A purple tinge soon swells in Charlotte’s cheeks and she slumps back with a keen of pain.

Anna’s black eyes stay locked onto the girl’s pudgy face as she relaxes her hold; prying her fingers away before new marks are left. The Huntress then reaches over, aiming to grab some poppy seeds from the little sack at her feet- and instantaneously receives a ferocious punch to the lower jaw. 

The Russian’s teeth rattle as she smashes into one of the flimsy planks sticking haphazardly from the floor. She howls, pain blooming along her temples. 

Meanwhile, Charlotte retracts her fist and claws herself into a standing position. She wheezes and tugs furiously at the crude body of the cord snared around her neck. Red pinpricks of blood start to leak past the puckered blisters at her fingertips; skin threatening to give way. Anna snags a handful of the tiny black opioids and lunges forward, hauling the deform’s crooked legs out from under her. She tackles the frenzied girl and traps her beneath her arms; holding fast and tight as she throws Charlotte’s head back and shoves the poppy seeds past her lips. 

For Charlotte, the sudden contact with the ground is enough to make it feel like salt is being rubbed into the split edges of the cuts on her back. The girl writhes and squirms under the Huntress’s hold, mustering a noise somewhere between an infuriated growl and a whine of pain as she fumbles to spit out the seeds. 

_“Shhhh...”_ Anna slides a rough hand over Charlotte’s mouth, hum dwindling down into a harrowing murmur. _“The hurt will leave soon…”_

Charlotte’s jabbing and snapping begins to cease as the poppy seeds take effect. She slumps back, curling her fingers through the soft dirt of the cellar floor, and is slowly entranced by the sound of her heartbeat ricocheting in her ears.

Before her world fades back to black, the girl feels calloused fingers run roughly through her hair; tracing the large bruise at the back of her scalp.

*

_Charlotte dreams of her brother._

_She stands at the edge of the Fog, staring into the woods. She can see Victor shivering beneath the gnarled roots of a slimy oak on the border. He is snarling softly, and burying his face in the snapped throat of some bloody mass of flesh. Tufts of white fur, dappled with crimson like rubies among snow, litter the ugly earth. A long, shredded pair of ears poke out from the mauled prey Victor holds to his withered chest. One rheumy red eye stares blankly out from the half-chewed face._

_It’s a rabbit. A white hare… That has suffered a vicious fate._

_Victor bellows and rends into the body with his claws. The dead creature jerks violently as the malformed child tears out the rest of it’s remains and burrows into the bloodied pelt._

_A guilty ache nips at the open cavity in Charlotte’s chest when she realizes that her brother is trying to replicate the feeling of dwelling with her. All of a sudden, she feels too cold and too alone- she yearns more than ever to warm the empty void with Victor’s presence._

“Soon, little brother.” _The girl rumbles silently._ “We will be together again soon.”

*

When she stirs for the second time, the pain is dull. 

Charlotte musters a soft grunt and blinks awake; letting her eyes adjust to the low light in the cellar. She can still feel the prickle of the rope encircling her neck: mangled twine itching deep into her skin.

A wet cloth slips down into the girl’s lap as she sits up. The scattered candles around the earthen room are flickering short and drip with wax. Charlotte scans the looming shadows, but there is no trace of the masked woman she had wrestled with earlier.

She’s by herself.

The older twin cautiously raises her arms over her head to stretch. There’s a bright sting when her broad shoulders pull at the rippling lash scars, but the sensation is quite tame compared to what she was feeling earlier.

Rough bandages of cloth and leather wind around her back and feet, smoothed with some sort of leafy paste that has a pointed scent. Her arms and legs have been scrubbed loose of grime. Her headache still lingers; but it’s less sharp on the spot between her eyes. 

_Why did that woman help me?_ Charlotte wonders, a scowl pulling down at the corner of her mouth. _What does she want me to do for her?_

As if on cue, there’s a loud creak from the other side of the shelter. The rotten trap door comes shuddering open, scattering topsoil in its wake, and for a few moments there is a square of dim light pooling across the dirt floor. A husky, resonating hum marks the arrival of the Huntress as she shifts the door shut behind her. Anna holds a tattered bundle beneath one arm, and she approaches Charlotte swiftly; meeting her fellow Killer’s frigid gaze with a curt tilt of the head.

The girl at her feet is glaring through icy grey eyes, cold enough to be carved from solid marble. Charlotte can imagine that white wooden mask splintered and flayed in the same manner as her brother's hare. She hisses warily and sizes up the other woman, who remains unfazed as she crouches right down and dumps a clump of rags in the lap of Deshayes. 

Charlotte squints dubiously at the parcel. _“Don’t think I want it.”_ She grumbles.

The Huntress pokes the lumpy bag of cloth and then prods at her charge expectantly, mumbling some strange words that probably mean “open it”. Charlotte can’t help but growl as she is touched, but peels back the frayed folds of fabric, expecting a cruel surprise like dead insects or bloody sludge.

All that sits in the bottom of the little bundle are a couple strips of dry venison and some blueberries.

Charlotte’s stomach rumbles the moment she catches glimpse of the meat, which causes the flicker of a fanged smile to grace Anna’s lips. But Charlotte pushes the parcel away and sits back, hands balling into reserved fists within her lap.

She won’t be tricked that easily.

The Huntress chuckles dangerously at the sign of refusal; a sound that’s deep and wolfish. She leans forward and takes one of the berries, popping it into her mouth and swallowing before shoving the food back over with the sharp utter of another foreign sentence. Charlotte stares suspiciously between Anna and the worn cloth bag for a long while, and never moves her gaze away as she gradually fishes out one of the pieces of jerky and takes a bite.

The other woman purrs, pleased, when her charge reluctantly starts to eat. She taps her fingers against her chest and lightens her hum.

“ _Anna.”_ The Huntress murmurs. _“Anna… I Anna.”_

Charlotte only scowls and crosses her rugged arms over her chest.

The Huntress points curiously towards the split in the girl’s flesh. _“Where is the tumor?”_

The older twin just shakes her head in response to the alien words and curls her lip into a grim sneer, laying out a flat hand before slicing her finger across the stretch of her palm. 

Anna remains quiet for a good minute, before rising without warning- causing Charlotte to flinch in spite of herself. Deshayes presses her back into the wall and tucks her head low, watching the strange woman smooth down the creases from her veil before turning to leave. 

Anna peers back over her shoulder before she goes, rasping. _“I will return with your friend.”_


	3. The Valley of Evil

A cold breeze ripples eerily through the deep woods, making Anna’s veil ruffle gently against her back.

She inhales deeply, relishing the crisp air. The notes of her lullaby come drifting out in slight huffs of misty breath.

Sharp stones, stray twigs and other forest debris poke into the Huntress’s bandaged soles as she walks, retracing her steps to the snares. If she is to find her charge’s contorted companion, she must follow Charlotte’s trail back from where Anna first discovered her.

 _What power does that monstrous little thing hold over the girl?_ The Russian can’t help but wonder. The one and only time she had seen the imp, it tried to tear out her throat.

In truth, she doesn’t know why she is bothering to do this. She’s already helped the deform to the best of her ability; not to mention spared Charlotte’s life long before she found the ugly cub scalded and twisted in a line of lead.

No more debts need to be reckoned with. The wellbeing of some oozing brat isn’t Anna’s problem.

Yet here she is, scouring old territory for a benefit that is not hers, to deal another favor that won’t be repaid.

This is foolish of her, and the Huntress knows it.

But she forces herself into the springe clearing, shriveled leaves crackling like gunfire beneath her feet. Loud rustling startles nearby ravens into the air when Anna walks around and firmly brushes aside piles of withering mulch, revealing staked loops of rusty wire sown across the glade.

But there’s one in particular; a snapped coil lying next to a rotting tree trunk, that piques her memory. The rim of the metal is tinted a dark brownish color. A large blotch of red stains the base of the stump’s flaking bark, right above the roots.

_I found her right here._

Anna’s fingers sink into a heavy indent among the soft black dirt, which crumbles beneath her hands with the damp of drying blood. _She was lying sprawled, like she had fallen hard and hit her head…_

The Huntress’s lips curve up into the beginnings of a grim smile. She recognizes this conjunction… Anna herself had executed it countless times before.

If there was anything the Russian had learned from years of honing the hunt, it was that when pain or fear is inflicted upon prey, they turn to one of their most practical instincts: running from the object of harm. But there is no ration, no observance- just the sound of the heart thrashing in the ears and the consuming thought to escape from threat. Blind terror paves the way for easy victory; game forgo their surroundings and always end up falling right into the trap.

_She fell because she was running. She turned into the prey._

Anna rises and sifts carefully through the nearby underbrush, noticing a scatter of dead leaves and flattened foliage along the tight path; as if some large person or animal had trampled through in a panic. The Huntress bends down for a closer look and spies a bent tip of crumpled fabric peeking out from the forest floor. She frowns and tugs hard at the end of the strip. There’s some resistance, before the mulch shifts to expose a very beaten sackcloth hat.

The ragged material is dusted in earth and adorned with speckles of crimson. Anna runs one thumb over the bristly fabric, curling the worn hood into her hand.

She knows she’s going in the right direction.

*

Bare, limping footprints churn up the soil beneath the mulch. The center of the tracks are blackened and clumped, compact with dry blood.

The marks are nearly big enough for Anna to step into as she cautiously picks her way down the trail, following the shallow impressions through the depth of the woods. A low film of Fog curls around her calves, seeming to tug at the frayed ends of her sarafan. The Huntress shakes off the hissing tendrils and strides forward with a quiet grumble, ignoring the way the mist stirs in agitation behind her.

**Анна…**

The Russian whips back at the tender call of her name, knuckles whitening on the body of her axe.

 _"...Мама?"_ She yowls.

A ruffle of cool air bats Anna gently over the head, and then her mother’s disembodied voice comes crooning once more. **I’m here, _milaya_. What are you doing? **

_“I’m tracking, Mama...”_ The Huntress closes her eyes and tries to lean into the phantom touch. _“I promised to help someone… ”_

Her turned back ensures that she doesn’t see the shadowy haze hum softly and thicken before the path, blocking the way.

 **Ah, yes... I saw the girl you brought into the Forest.** Anna hears Mama sigh. The sound stretches into a fleeting echo, brushing through the dark wisps of Fog. **I’m afraid you have fallen right into her trap, _zaychik_. **

_“What do you mean?”_ Anna curls her lips up into an unsettled sort of pout.

 **You invited a fox into our burrow, Anna, and what’s more: you left her there alone.** There’s a distant growl inching beneath Mama’s kindly tone; the sort of noise that makes the hair on the Huntress’s arms prickle.

_“She was in pain, Mama…”_

**Whatever she received was owed.** Her mother scoffs, and a chill breeze bites at Anna’s bare heels. **Did you not see the scourge of her back? The marks of Punishment are reserved for such thieves.**

 _“I didn’t want to let her die.”_ Anna tilts her chin up, trying to appear undaunted, but even a turtle could have heard the waver in her words. _“She-”_

 **Have you learned nothing from me, child?!** Mama’s sudden snarl is enough to pry a whine of fear from the back of the Huntress’s throat. **Or have you forgotten how quick she was to steal from us?!**

 _“She chose not to return after I defeated her in ritual.”_ Anna swallows, digging grimy nails into her blade’s splintered wooden handle. _“Like the volki, Mama, like how you taught me.”_

 **She does not deserve your mercy, Anna.** Her mother’s whisper is taut and rueful. A ghostly hand comes and caresses the Huntress’s cheek with fingers as frigid as mountain ice. **The _deformatsiya_ is a wanderer. You know what they did. **

Anna has to blink back flashes of mass graves and pounding gunfire when she hears those words. She traces the scarred entry of a bullet wound which grazes across her forearm and stifles a whimper. _“No honor…”_

 **That’s right.** Mama purrs. She grasps her daughter by the nape; sending shivers down Anna’s spine as a bitter gust of wind lurches against her back. **So now… You return home, and you split that _cyka’s_ skull in two. **

Her icy grip is tightening by the second, closing fast around the Huntress’s flanks. Bones seem to solidify into ice. Cold needles over greying skin and turns the muscles rigid.

This is not her Mama... Her Mama would never hurt her like this.

Horrified tears prick the corners of Anna's eyes. All around her immobile figure, the mist rises into a seething ocean of black.

 **It’s a shame you could not recall my lessons.** The Entity's venomous hiss oozes over what was once the lilt of a mother. **Your new friend made a similar error, and you saw the fate which befell her...** **But you will find me much more reasonable to deal with than her rabid little pet.**

A jolt of dread snaps through Anna's frozen form.

 **The** **stench of her blood is upon you... The beast is on his way.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian Translations
> 
> Milaya = Honey  
> Zaychik = Bunny  
> Volki = Wolves  
> Deformatsiya = Malformation  
> Cyka = Bitch


	4. Between Hunters Dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect this mini series of mine to go on this long, if I'm being honest, but I appreciate all the support. Hope you guys enjoy!

_“Come on... Come on!”_

Charlotte growls in determination, furiously raking a coarse stone against the weathered stretch of chafing rope.

She’s holding the cord out at arms length. Her hands ache, and it feels as if the callouses on her fingertips are about to burst open, but she keeps working.

 _“Faster, Charlotte!”_ The girl urges herself. _“You know that_ **_folle_ ** _won’t be gone forever.”_

Unkempt, sawed threads stick out from the rope’s worn core. Charlotte ultimately huffs in impatience and throws the rock aside, instead gripping below the knot in the noose. It takes her a moment to collect her breath and grit her teeth before she pulls down.

Bristly fibers dig in like tiny thorns as the loop closes around her throat, rubbing a raw ring into the flesh of her neck. Veins strain in resistance under the binding as air grows scarce, but Charlotte still tuggs.

Stars are sparkling before her eyes by the time the rope finally snaps, sending the older twin tumbling flat onto her back.

Deshayes pries the broken tether up over her head with a gasp of relief. She presses one hand to the blotched streaks of scraped skin which graze above her collarbone. 

_“Good riddance.”_ Her whisper is hoarse and irked.

Charlotte doesn’t waste too much time relishing the dry oxygen flowing through her lungs. She struggles to her feet and limps to the cellar entrance, slamming her shoulder hard against the door to test it’s might. It rattles at her push, but doesn’t budge. Dirt scuffs under the crack at the bottom of the wood. The deform drums her raw fingers across the moist planks and lets a muttered curse slip out. 

She turns and paces through the shelter, scouring it’s dim space for anything which might help her break by. But there’s not much to see; just the severed head of the split rope and a bunch of flimsy, mildewed boards. 

Until stormy grey eyes land on the candles flickering at the back of the cellar, melting in drools of wax within the nooks of the soil walls. 

An idea slowly starts to form.

She reaches for the papery strings of herbs dangling overhead. Dry, thin leaves flake beneath Charlotte’s grasp as she easily rips the makeshift tinder from the ceiling and shoves it underneath the split in the door. The older twin then scurries to one of the alcoves and cups a quivering candle between her hands. Hot beads of wax trickle from the top, and Charlotte stifles a cry as a drop of liquid fire trails down her right thumb. 

She quickly kneels and tips the wick to the loose line of kindling tucked below the door’s base. For one terrifying moment, the taper sputters and threatens to extinguish- but then the edges of the leaves singe. The girl lays herself as close as she can bear, pressing flat against the earthen floor as flames crackle to life. 

It doesn’t take too long for plumes of smoke to rise, pulling a guttural growl of disgust from Charlotte when the acrid smell fills the air. Billows of gray push thickly on the roof and walls, clouding the stale atmosphere within the cellar. Deshayes flings her arms over her head and tries to ignore the buzz of adrenaline building in her veins. The burning scent and hissing fire is tickling less than pleasant memories.

_Mother screaming in agony, alight in a melting mass of her own charred flesh and cloak._

_Victor hanging dead from Charlotte’s torso; the sharp reek of ash blanketing his blistered body._

_Weak sparks winking in the heart of a feeble campfire, providing little warmth to the frostbitten girl trembling before it._

Charlotte snaps her head up, choking on an abrupt inhale of smoke. Irritant tears dim her vision; and the flashbacks fade when she blinks back the brine. The girl hisses angrily and raps one fist briefly against her forehead to try and orient herself.

She screws her eyes shut tight, holds as deep a breath that can be gathered in the smoldering air, and lunges for the door.

The tawny flames have scorched a narrow pass through an arch of wet timber at it’s basis. The border of the gap is serrated and gleaming with embers.

Charlotte forces her head past first, then wedges her shoulders and arms by. Her scratching fingers meet cool dirt on the other side, which invigorates the deform. With scarred feet scrabbling against the soil, she pulls herself forward- only to howl in pain as splintered fangs unexpectedly strike from above. 

Needles of hot, ashy wood rend hungrily into her skin. Menacing sparks sizzle close to ragged fabric. A ferocious snarl comes roaring past Charlotte’s scarred lips, curled back in rage. 

Not here. Not now. 

Her sore muscles scream in protest as she thrashes and drags and strains against the barbed forks of timber denying her her freedom. Blood wells around the points of barkish shrapnel sunken in her back.

_Creak... Creaaak… Creeeeaaaaak….. SNAP!_

A fresh wave of hurt overwhelms Charlotte the moment she slumps loose, lurching forward and nearly getting a faceful of mud. The older twin yelps like a kicked dog at the sensation of her wounds, writhing on the ground. When the sting dulls enough for her to reach behind, her groping palms return slicked with red.

The lash marks had torn open; stitches split apart by the brutal clasp of the wooden splinters embedded near her spine.

The girl moans and buries her head between her blotched arms. Every gulping breath she sucks in freezes her lungs, sending a stink of smoke flaring through her nose.

_Get up. You have to keep going._

She tries to move, but her body won’t cooperate. The only motion it lets her muster is flopping over pathetically in the dirt.

That’s when a rabid screech pierces out with the force of a fog horn among the silent forest. It’s a glass-shattering kind of wail; enough to make the crows burst from their roosts in cawing alarm. The scream is shrill and gargled and… Unbearably familiar.

_Victor._

Charlotte’s head feels no heavier than an anvil, but she grits her teeth through the ache of heaving it up. She forces her arms to bend, compels her legs to hold her weight. She pants from pained exertion as she hauls herself to her feet, staggering in the soft grass and moss. 

The deform leaves the cellar to burn and stumbles back out into the woods. 

She has to get to her brother. 

*

The little demon’s howl of pain when Anna’s axe finally meets it’s rotting flesh is near music to her ears. 

She kicks the creature away, wearily watching it groan and roll over onto it’s back in the dirt as if it were a dog playing dead. A puckered gash, sides fissured by the uneven force of a desperate blow, splits the middle of a gangly chest.

The Huntress finally huffs and sinks to the ground, reclining sluggishly against a hollow oak. The handle of her blade wavers from a leaden grip as she moves to put pressure to the gaping trench spat from the seat of her throat. It’s about the size of a tennis ball, with blood running thick and hot past the confines of her fingers.

The tiny monster had come from the trees.

It had lunged down from the branches and it had lunged with vengeance, mauling mercilessly into the Huntress and chewing a hole along her neck within seconds. She’d shouted and swung and shook, but the devil hissed and shrieked and refused to budge. 

Yet there it now lies, only meters away, glistening in a puddle of fluids with slimy hands and feet twitching like the curled limbs of a crushed spider.

It’s not dead. Not quite yet. But it is dying, and her charge is going to be angry.

 _That girl…_ Anna thinks back to when she first found her, lying broken and bare in the midst of the glade only a few miles from where the Huntress now sits. She can remember the pungent scent of dried gore and burned flesh; it’s hard to forget the way the rusty snare bit into the deform’s ankle with malice.

She squints through the hollow slits of the hare mask, straining against the colorful spots swimming before her narrow sight. _Was she really worth all of my trouble?_

Some small part of her wishes she could answer yes.

 **If you ever see an animal in the trap that is still alive, Anna, what do you do?** The Huntress can recall Mama saying from somewhere far in the distance.

 _“I kill it.”_ She mouths halfheartedly, reminiscing the words once stated by an Anna much younger and smaller. _“It’d be cruel to let it suffer.”_

Scarlet flows further from the puncture in her throat, splattering in sticky lines of red to soak the collar and breast of her sarafan.

 **That’s correct. Never choose cruelty,** **_milaya_ ** **, or it will make you suffer in turn.**

As always… Mama had been right. The _Entity_ had been right.

It truly would have been better of her to put Charlotte Deshayes out of her misery.

*

The stench of blood is high in the air by the time Charlotte teeters heedlessly into the clearing. In the moonless illumination, her shadow falls prey to the black film of Fog worming up from the forest floor.

 _“Victor?”_ She gasps and swallows down the bile building at the back of her throat. A stitching pain ripples through her torso. _“Victor, where are you? Can you hear me?”_

Fearful orbs of gray, shining with frantic tears, sweep like silver-tinted headlights through the faint gloom. It’s so dark that the girl can barely discern the imposing figure shambling from the mist, stepping towards her in a slow, crooked stance. 

The person is humming.

It’s a strangled sound- rank and choppy, like the tune is being sung through a gargle of salt water. But the melody is cobbled enough for Charlotte to recognize, and her heart thrashes uneasily in her ears- the drum to break the lull.

The girl’s captor emerges before her from the haze, veil askew and axe blade plowed into the earth for balance. Ebony sclera glint bleakly behind the worn eyeholes of the hare mask. She bundles something bulky beneath her breast- 

_“Victor!”_ Charlotte nearly screams.

She snatches her brother crudely from the crook of the Huntress’s elbow and pulls him into a tight embrace, shuddering in relief as she tucks his head under her chin. He smells strongly of copper. 

The older twin expects him to squirm in her grasp, or at least mimic some playful growl, but Victor barely moves. There’s only a slight tremble in his limbs; a shallow rise and fall of his flanks. He croaks out a dull whine, and Charlotte draws back instantly.

 _“Victor?”_ His sister’s brow creases in concern. She carefully tucks her younger twin into the abscess at her chest. _"What’s the matter, Little Brother?”_

A tiny, gnarled hand comes to rest in hers, scratching weakly around the base of her thumb. Victor jerks his older twin’s hand to the center of his belly, and Charlotte’s fingers stiffen around a jagged cleft of clotted blood. She traces the plait lines scissoring from the rift, sensing dirt flake off at her touch.

 _“..._ ** _What_ ** _did you do to him?”_ Charlotte’s voice drips with sudden venom. She turns and glares gray daggers at the Huntress, shielding her younger twin's shivering body. _“What did you do to my brother?!”_

Her captor just groans; a noise that sputters heavily with the force of free blood. Cracked lips part. Crimson burbles out in place of words, dripping down her chin. 

The axe falls, the blood froths, and Anna's knees give way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folle = Madwoman  
> Milaya = Honey


End file.
